The Convenient Lie
by Silver Nemesis
Summary: Tom Riddle was very much annoyed, being bound to a chair and seated in the kitchen of the Order, with thirteen or so wands pointed at various parts of his body and a very confused and angry Harry Potter attempting to glare holes through his head..."


**A Convenient Lie**

**Prologue**

Number Twelve Grimmauld Place had seen and housed many peculiar characters in its time, not the least of which being the Order of the Phoenix and its members who were currently at an astounding loss of what to do. Some gaped, others glared and most unsheathed their wands and were pointing it menacingly at the current conundrum that was sitting at the kitchen table.

Tom Marvolo Riddle stared back at his antagonists with an expression of incredulous annoyance and finally started to comprehend why the Death Eaters and their master had managed to take so much ground, members and loyalty from the esteemed Order. With the loss of Albus Dumbledore the previous year, the very machinations of the rebel group started to crumble. This had been followed by eleven months of Harry Potter and his loyal companions scouring the English country in a secret mission bestowed upon him by said late Headmaster. The secretive nature of this mission had been slowly driving the rest of the Order into chaos with both their leader and poster boy out of the picture, the organization had been left without any specific aims.

Finally, with the return of the Golden Boy to the Order after completing his mission – Tom assumed correctly it was to destroy the remaining Horcruxes – Voldemort, to their knowledge was finally mortal. However, with the Death Eaters possessing control of the Ministry, media and mass population hysteria, Voldemort was still untouchable in many a sense.

Especially since the Order, Harry Potter and even the Death Eaters were oblivious to the true story, nature and identity of Voldemort.

Tom had decided the time to act was now.

As such, he was currently in the kitchen of the order with thirteen or so wands pointed at various parts of his body and a very confused and angry Harry Potter attempting to glare holes through his head.

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't Avada you and end this war in five seconds." Whispered Potter, his eyes practically glowing the color of the aforementioned curse.

Tom sighed, hurting his ribcage by aggravating the cords wrapped firmly around his torso. "Because not only would the war not end in five seconds, but you would be releasing Voldemort from the last of his human bonds tying him to this plane of existence. This would lead to him exponentially increasing his powers without the need to gather any of the Hallows, expanding his dominion to cover not only this world but Morgana knows how other many dimensions and succeed in achieving irreversible immortaility." Unbelievable silence met these words.

"And you would be killing an innocent man." Tom met Potter's stare, attempting to put as much honesty and open emotion that he possibly could into the gaze. This was more of a challenge for their heir of Slytherin than he thought it would be, so used to detachment. But he would make the effort.

Potter leant back, wand still out and alert but Gryffindor curiosity now mingled with the anger and confusion. "Talk, and make it good."

General outcry met this statement. Ron Weasley, at the forefront of the disagreeing parties started, "Mate, you can't honestly be serious…"

"This HAS to be a trap!"

"He's Lord-bloody-Voldemort, of course it's a trap!"

"…but he still looks like he belongs at school…"

"…so did the diary Horcrux…"

"Enough!" Potter said quietly, yet firmly, not taking his eyes off of Tom's. Everyone did so.

Green bored into dark blue. "Talk."

Tom understood. One chance to explain himself. Time to be as honest as he could possibly be, time to erase incorrect perceptions and to redeem himself.

Time to talk.

"You wouldn't happen to have some Veriteserum on hand would you?"

* * *

I believe myself to be a very peculiar character. You, I know for a fact, believe me to be quite dastardly actually, a bit of a devil. You see, this is _exactly_ the reason why I feel I need to explain myself, and not only for myself now. There are people who rely on me, I need to help them. And no Weasley, I will not tell you who they are until I can be sure that you all believe and fully understand events!

You see, everyone had it wrong! From the meddling, always assuming headmaster, to those who believe that they in fact follow me and are my closest supporters. Oh, how the real devil of this story has fooled everyone, including myself I am ashamed to say.

Do not get me wrong, I am definitely no saint. But I am not pure, black-hearted evil either. No, that title has already been taken by that whom has taken my life over in such a way that even the seventh circle of hell meant for betrayers would regurgitate at the thought of him being included amongst their midst.

You have been fighting Voldemort for the past thirty-five years or so believing him to be spawned out of myself as a child. Tom Marvolo Riddle, I am Lord Voldemort. Not so. My, how that devil has fooled everyone.

Because this little tale is about the devil, Voldemort. However, the devil has many different names.

And Tom Marvolo Riddle is not one of them.

I am the last descendant of the line of Salazar Slytherin, Head Boy at Hogwarts of the year 1945. But that is where my life just about ends for half a century.

I had been trapped in the Chamber of Secrets for forty-nine years. The year is now 1997. The Chamber of Secrets was home to a basilisk since the time of the founders. It had been my home since the forties. Let me, once again attempt to explain as I am sure many of you are still highly confused.

My biological family (as I learnt later in my life) were, to put it simply, a band of inbreds whose fanaticism and obsession about preserving the blood line of Salazar Slytherin came to such a point where brothers were taking their sisters, mothers and their sons etcetera. As recent muggle scientists have discovered by researching gene mutations and cell reproduction, that if members of the same blood family were to reproduce together, the child spawned out of the relationship would be mutated or deformed in one way or another due to the close nature of the genes joined together in reproduction. All of this talk is coming to a point, do not worry. Please bear with me for the moment.

This scientific theory does not exclude itself to the world of wizardry unfortunately. As is the case, my family on my mother's side suffered from not only physical disfigurements but also psychological illnesses. This of course would explain the behavior of my absolutely charming uncle I'm sure when I had the pleasure of meeting him.

Despite my mother marrying a muggle from a completely different gene pool, I in fact suffered from a severe case of schizophrenia when I was younger, which I now hypothesis came from my mother. Do not get me wrong, I do not blame my mother, not now anyway. I actually hail her as being the only sane being in her family for many generations, and for that I thank her. Apart from that small portion of gratitude, I feel indifference for that particular subject. The deed was done, now I had to live with it.

Throughout my life at the orphanage, I learnt to deal with my problem. I never told anyone, I was merely very quiet, reserved and immersed myself in the field of knowledge and study. No one knew I had my thoughts to keep me company. I never stooped so low as to give them names mind you; rather I liked to think of them as different aspects of my subconscious aiding me. For example, once when I was five and in grade one, the teacher asked the den of disinterested children whether they knew how to count to such a difficult number like one hundred. In this particular instance, my courage was shouting at me to put my hand up in the air and give it a shot like the good school boy I was. The studious side of me wanted to bask in the teacher's attention and hope to gain something more difficult to work on once this small obstacle was trodden on. My pride however wished to have nothing to do with the classroom, the teacher or the students as they proved too worthless and pathetic to be witness to my intellectual superiority. My pride shone through the wailing cries of my courage.

It was like this through my ten years of orphanage life. If someone's ball came rolling towards me, astray from a pointless game of "chuck", I would continue reading my book and not pay attention to the pleading looks of my fellow orphans who did not want to run fifty metres. When in church, surrounded by the dulcet wails of the sisters and children, my cynical mind would point out every flaw, scientific and historical, in the teachings and stories fed to us every Sunday morning. My pitiful excuse for clothing was kept immaculate, my personal hygiene and health (disregarding the obvious) was as good as could be achieved at the orphanage and my reputation preceded me in all situations. Once I finally earned enough pocket money (after six years of saving) I bought a divider to separate myself from my dorm mates in the small room we shared. I now had an even smaller room in our small room. And it was mine.

Not that there was much to occupy the space. A small, rickety old bed, an equally small, rotting wardrobe which contents consisted of the few clothes that I possessed, the borrowed books from the library and a small tin of a few of my most prized possessions. Trophies if you will, but small things that were mine and mine alone. Its things like the small piece of string, a button, a yoyo and other such contents which reminded me that some things can be personal and hold significant meaning for people. Possessions. To possess something and not share it with others, which often happens at the orphanage. It was a special thing. Like me.

Most of the children were frightened of me. The adults were always wary. If I wanted answers, I was told. If I wanted to keep my secrecy, it was given. If I wanted to walk down to the library on my own during breaks, I could. I was semi-independent. Any chance to prove myself, to do something on my own and say that I didn't need others help. They were small victories, but victories nonetheless. Until the smaller victories became less satisfying. But once again, we are jumping ahead.

Everything became routine. Breakfast in the mornings, read, school, read, lunch, school, read, bath, read, bed. The monotony of this routine did not bore me however, as the books I managed to borrow during my weekly trips to the public library kept me entertained. I find it a bit of an irony now. I read and studied to keep myself from going insane! Ah, the peculiarities life throws at us.

The monotony was destroyed when a completely different part of my personality was awakened however. I can't exactly pinpoi…never mind! I remember with perfect clarity now!

I believe it started with poor little Billy Stubbs. A large, ratty looking boy, on the plump side and only made friends with the most influential and powerful in the small community of orphans. He also happened to be one of my three "roomies". Yes, reminds me quite a bit of the mindless fool Voldemort has under him, Wormtail I believe his name is. How fitting. I believe you are all acquainted with him?

Mrs. Cole told Professor Dumbledore that all she knew was that Billy and I had fought the day before and the next day his bunny had been hanging from the rafters. I know what everyone thought after that, _I know it was Tommy Riddle, that awfully quiet boy. I heard them I did, when they fought. Tommy started it. I was there, I saw it all, poor little Billy!_

Of course, Billy had unfortunately befriended the right people as was his goal, and magically (note the sarcasm) everyone saw the fight, everyone knew it was Tommy's fault and though no one saw what happened to the rabbit, everyone shared the same suspicion.

While, I admit, the suspicion is correct, it was not for the reason everyone believes it to be! No one was there when Billy and I fought. It was all lies, rumors turned to believable truth when it reached the ears of Mrs. Cole. I was provoked. Remember the nice divider I bought with my saved pocket money? Well, this is what happened.

I was sitting in my "room", quietly reading the latest adventures of Edmund Dantes in his quest for revenge when I heard the door to the actual room open and slam shut. Not particularly appreciating the disruption, yet not interested in the cause I turned back to the book. Well, that was until the door of _my_ room was ripped away.

The greasy, pudgy face of Billy met my eyes. He looked quite shocked to see me there, sitting quietly on my bed. Until somehow I knew.

_He was going to go through my possessions! This isn't the first time he has done this!_

How I knew, I didn't know, and I didn't care. Upon reflection, probably an unconscious form of legilimency. All I knew was that my privacy, my _only_ form of pathetic privacy in that god-forsaken place had been breached. A fight took place. I did start it, but Billy wasn't slow to retaliate. Billy, of course being the much larger one of the two of us won. I received a black eye. Billy got nothing. Just for show, he threw the divider to the ground and jumped on it so all that was remaining was broken wood and cloth. He left the room.

That is the one and only time I cried. Silent tears, but tears nonetheless.

Then _he_ came.

That night was a particularly cold spring night, to everyone's displeasure, but then again, what can anyone expect from English weather? Instead of suffering the surprised attention of the rest of my dorm mates when they saw the broken divider, I feigned sleep for three hours waiting for them all to drift off into unconsciousness.

Once their breathing slowed and the snoring started, I rolled on my back and stared at the ceiling. The rusty springs were digging into my back, the washed grey blanket too thin, the pillow musty and lumpy. A wave of self-pity washed over me.

_Tom…_

These were the times when my "subconscious" thoughts would decide to make their appearance, so I thought of my times tables, spelling words, newspaper articles, I would settle on any topic to keep my mind from straying.

_Tom…_

Books, I was currently reading _The Count of Monte Cristo_ by Alexandre Dumas. Yes, focus on the book. Edmund Dantes, wronged by those he thought friends, put in a version of hell for over a decade. Escapes with only one thing in mind.

_Revenge…_

Yes, revenge was probably the main theme of the book…

_And of people's minds, what they feel in their hearts…_

Yes. Revenge was suitable for some events in life, especially when…

_Someone has done you a wrong._

An act of invasion?

_An act of evil._

At this time, you must understand, I was beyond all hope of comprehendible thought. The anger was surging through my veins like an addictive drug, dulling my senses and yet setting my mind alight with possibilities. I thought it was my anger talking, my anger taking control.

It was that night I believe that the dormant soul of Salazar Slytherin awoke in me.

The next day, I was sitting on my favourite chair in the sitting room as Dennis Bishop raced in the room and screamed and cried himself hoarse about what he saw in the hallway.

Like the after effects of a drug, I did not remember doing the deed with perfect clarity; in fact I hardly remember it all. I marked that event however with an emotion, just as addicting as anger. Triumph.

* * *

"Alright, stop right there!"

Tom broke out of his reminiscence, startled and more than a little annoyed. Potter cocked his head to the side, and finally dropped his wand an inch or so.

Careful not to agitate his bindings Tom sighed, "Alright, I'll bite. What is it?"

Potter gave him a contemplative look. He had everyone's attention. Despite McGonnagal leading the Order, it was clear who was in charge. "I think this discussion should be continued in a more private setting."

**Heya! I have had this story on the backburner for quite a while, it has undergone some revisions and has finally been posted. Depending on the response to it I may or may not continue. But alas! I am bored and need a summer project. Make it worth my time people…**

**To hopefully be continued.**

**Silver Nemesis.**


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